Legend of Saint Tyrael
Saint Tyrael lived in a period of time where the Holy Light and its parishioners were not so well organized, during the warring kingdoms era. In that period of time, when Cathedrals were a rarity, and churches small and isolated, demons and blasphemers still roamed the land. As we now know, the hunt for these demonic beasts and heretical cultists largely fell to the guardian, Aegwynn. However, certain just and honorable men of the Light used their knowledge of lore, strength in arms, and sheer determination to defend the people from the ruinous powers. One such man was Tyrael, a monk of renown, who used a flaming sword to smite the corrupting foes of the land. He lived in the region now known as the Hillsbrad Foothills. It is said that through battle, he recovered many of the ancient relics now guarded by the Church. One notable enemy was a Nathrezim by the name of Cateroc. The vampiric demon continued to reform and resurrect upon being slain, in the same manner as Balnazaar and Mal'ganis. His reign of terror was finally ended when Tyrael drove his blade through the heart of the demon, pinning him to the ground, whereupon Tyrael began annointing the beast with blessed waters and oils, burning the demon alive. It is this tale that spawned the method of 'stalking' or 'hunting' demons with a stake and holy oils, common in the northern lands. While always considered an old wives' tale, the existance of several well-documented encounters from a number of reputable demon hunters may mean that there is truth to the legends. Saint Tyrael slew many such demons, and many people came to believe that no evil could stand in his way. And for a time, this was true. However, even the mightiest of men may fall. Saint Tyrael met his end when he encountered a most vile foe which even his purity and steel could not best. Upon the highest peak of Khaz Modan - the spine of the world, he challenged a Doom Guard of terrible and unholy strength. The demon had terrorized the local inhabitants , both human and dwarf alike, for many fortnights. Even Tyrael's enchanted blade did nothing but enrage the creature. Suddenly, during the battle's peak, Tyrael had a vision. The spirit that appeared before him told him of a blessed spring far to the distant south. When he awoke, he stood in a dark cave, a golden chalice before him. Taking the chalice, he ventured south for many weeks, seeking the spring. Upon discovering the fabled pool. he dipped the chalice beneath it's shimmering surface and drank deep of its waters. In doing so, Tyrael gained immortality, and immense strength with which to strike down his foe. When he had finished the chalice, the spirit reappeared before him, and instructed Tyrael to seek out the demon once more, and end its unholy existance. Tyrael returned to the peak, and glared into the soulless pits of the demon's eyes. "Dark magics will be of no avail here, demon!" he cried. And with that, he charged. Man battled eternal evil for several days without end, trading blow for blow. Although the holy waters of the spring protected his body from harm, they did not shield him from the pain of the demon's attacks. Still, Tyrael fought on. The battle may still have been raging today, thousands of years later, were it not for a tragic twist of fate. During a particularily fierce flurry of blows, Tyrael's blade and the demon's axe met, edge to edge. In a blast that tore the mountain in twain, both weapons exploded, shards of glimmering holy steel and ominous midnight obsidian flew through the air like a million arrows. When the dust settled, it was revealed that the demon's chest had been pierced in a dozen places. Sadly, a shard of his own blade had also impaled Tyrael's heart. With the demon's death, the power of the blessed waters began to fade, and with them, Tyrael's life. But the spirit appeared before him once more to say that, through all his noble deeds, Tyrael would hereby be named a saint and martyr of the Holy Light, forever representing the true virtues of all those to come in his wake. The spirit then instructed Tyrael to toss the remains of his blade from the peak, so that its powers may never be used by the evil it was meant to destroy. With the last ounce of his strength, Tyrael cast the hilt of the sword from the mountain, and the winds of Khaz Modan carried the remaining shards to the four corners of Azeroth, where they remained largely hidden for several thousand years. His final task complete, Tyrael collapsed into the bloodstained snow. As death slowly blanketed him, a single beam of light pierced the thick, grey clouds. It enveloped Tyrael's broken form, and lifted him into the sky. With a blinding flash, both the beam of light and the saint, were gone. It wasn't until after the end of the First War that Tyrael's hilt was found. Many knightly orders still seek the missing shards of the fabled blade today, so that the sword may be reforged and wielded by future champions of the Light. References Story written by Basilieus. Category:Stories Category:Saint